“Yep!” Peter rose stiffly. He wanted to go to bed. “Noreen’s the saving from the litter. How many was there, Polly?”
Polly got upon her feet, the trouble-look growing in her eyes.
“Noreen had a twin as was dead,” she said tenderly. “Then the last one lived two hours––that’s all, brother.” She walked to the window. “The storm is setting this way,” she went on. “Just listen to that lake acting up as if it was the ocean.”
The riotous swish of the water sounded distant but insistent in the warm, quiet room, and faintly, at rare intervals, the bell, rung by unseen forces, struck dully. It had given up the struggle.
Northrup, presently, had a strong inclination to say to his host that he had changed his mind and must leave on the morrow. That course seemed the only safe and wise one.
“But why?” Something new and uncontrolled demanded an answer. Why, indeed? Why should anything he had heard cause him to change his plans? This hectic story of a young woman had set his imagination afire, but it must not make a fool of him. What really was taking place became presently overpoweringly convincing.
“I am going to write!”
That was it! The story had struck his dull brain into action and he had been caught in time, before running away. He had gained the thing he had been pursuing, and he might have let it escape! The woman of the yellow house became a mere bearer of a rare gift––his restored power! He was safe; everything was safe. The world had righted itself at last. It wasn’t the woman with the dun-coloured ending to her story that mattered; it was the story.
“I think I’ll turn in,” he said, stifling a yawn, “Good-night.”